


Is it Any Wonder That My Mind's on Fire

by NorthwesternInsanity



Category: Blue Oyster Cult, Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Soft White Underbelly period, TW defined in notes, TW: brief mentions of suicide, Vietnam War Draft, draft dodging, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthwesternInsanity/pseuds/NorthwesternInsanity
Summary: "...Didn't think I'd get out and still get to live, though.  Isn't that something?... ...Either I have the rights to say 'suck it' right back to everyone, or I'll have hell to pay someday..."Allen Lanier returns home early after being drafted in 1968.  Manager and songwriting contributor Sandy Pearlman evaluates him with accuracy no hospital could provide the primative oyster boys.





	Is it Any Wonder That My Mind's on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of suicide, but not necessarily an attempt. Allen's overdose has been described in one of many instances as a suicide attempt, though compared to others, seems more like a desperate measure to escape a terrifying situation that entailed a risk of death he was willing to take for the chance of getting out and still making it. My portrayal follows that interpretation, with Allen not really wanting to die. Decide for yourself if that is safe or not for your level of comfort.

Two months after losing their keyboardist to the war draft, Soft White Underbelly was receiving the news they'd have him back in mere days.

That on its own was happy, unexpected news for manager Sandy Pearlman. Also good news to guitarist Donald Roeser and drummer Albert Bouchard, who were still struggling to work out the kinks with the stand-in they'd chosen for small gigs. That on top of dealing with the arrival of new singer Les Braunstein was quickly becoming a lot to juggle, even for a band of maniacs who could take a certain amount of insanity.

Though while the return was unexpected, the reason why was equally concerning.

As far as Sandy knew from the paperwork and letter he'd received from the Army and the affiliated hospital they would have to pick him up from when he was ready for discharge, they were lucky to be getting Allen Lanier back alive.

'Paranoia' and 'hysteria' were listed at the top of the medical papers as symptoms he'd presented with in his final two weeks of time.

'Calcaneofibular Ligament Sprain' was listed as a week prior, with note of prescribed painkillers. History report stated he'd rolled his ankle jumping down from his bunk when a surprise attack came on the camp he was stationed in.

Then, as of the day prior, before he was flown out of the Nam and back to the World, found unconscious and treated for an opiate overdose.

_Suspected consumption over five times the prescribed dose. Estimated elapsed time deemed >2 hours. Gastric suction deemed minimally effective in recovery on procedure; <10% mass of seven pills recovered. Patient was supported with antagonist drugs and intravenous fluids to restore blood pressure. Patient was stabilized after 2 hours of treatment. Patient was conscious 5 hours after treatment commenced, and despondent on waking up. Overdose deemed attempted suicide._

Bassist Andy Winters was the talkative, bossy one of them, so with Allen in a hospital an hour away, Sandy left him to the task of showing Les the ropes, and he went to the hospital with Donald and Albert in tow every day, where they kept vigil over Allen together.

He'd been sedated to prevent any panic on the flight home, and was still being weaned off the drugs of his induced coma the first night. Sandy, Donald, and Albert were there at the start of the second morning, when Allen began to come to and had his breathing tube removed. That was when doctors forced them out, so they had to leave and weren't allowed back for the initial twenty-four hour observatory period, in which they'd assess Allen's true psychological state, rather than the incoherent one when he'd first come up from his overdose. The first half of which involved restraints to the bed, as with previous suicide attempters sent home from the draft.

Allen was still loopy and weak on the third morning when they came back, and subdued by tranquilizers as a standing precaution, but physically freed from the bed. Nurses cautioned that only one was allowed in at first, and if Allen wasn't disturbed by the presence, then the others could join.

That set them on alert, but judging back lack of restraints, and several warning labels having disappeared from the chart on the wall, Sandy came to the conclusion on entry that he was safe to assume Allen hadn't been sentenced to a psych ward.

That, and Allen's characteristic, timid greeting. Sitting up and leaning forward off the pillows he was propped on and nodding.

"Was wondering whether it was going to be you or Meltzer who showed up first," he offered. "Have to say, I'm glad it's you."

"It's good to see you too." Sandy's tone was sharp, in compliment of Allen's facetious comment toward Richard's rather harsh attitude, but genuine. "You don't look too bad off for you. Or for somebody who just got back from war. Aside from wanting out bad enough to try for death."

"Good to know. Maybe I needed the reminder myself I'm only as screwed up as I probably think I am." Allen dropped back on the pillows unceremoniously. "You'd be hard pressed to know with the way they act here in the hospital."

"So," said Sandy flatly, "how'd you do? While you were there, anyway."

Looking up to the ceiling with a spaced-out gaze in his sad, wide, sunken eyes, a soft grin crossed Allen's face.

It was, as far as Sandy could remember, the greatest expression of euphoria he'd ever seen coming from that haunted boy.

"I got myself _out."_

An uncoordinated shrug accompanied his quip. He curled up his lip unevenly against his protruding teeth, forming more of an inebriated smirk.

"I saw a lot of others who didn't. And won't."

Sandy kept his expression deadpan. "Did you know any of them?"

"Perhaps a few. Didn't seem wise to talk much, you know. To not blow cover, or suffer the consequences of getting too close when it can end whenever. Maybe I knew some, but they weren't recognizable in the end. They all fade into each other anyway. When you see practically every one of the dead in a day."

"Where'd you end up?" Sandy knitted his eyebrows, curiosity and concern over the last statement getting the better of him. "Not to doubt a strength I might not be aware of, but you don't seem like the type they'd deem ready for the front lines in the two months you were there."

"Oh, they saw on my records, I'd been through film school. That's what they went after in me. Someone to document every casualty there was in our camp -for all the reasons to draft someone. They video taped living casualties. If I didn't film the injuries in the infirmary, I still had to process the work of whoever did into playable form. So someone else -whoever was in charge of that -could go through it and match to any identifying name to some other source if they were incoherent and disfigured."

"And the dead?"

"All the dead I was in charge of, I saw back in the infirmary and took photographs of. Documentation, confirming identity, sending it back home to any kin, you know. More than half of them didn't ever know what hit them, judging by cause and mechanism. And some of them, it happened away from the battle lines where they'd have never expected it. On the same watch posts as I was when I had to do nighttime sentinel sometimes. 

"And I decided, if I couldn't get out, odds of dying there were good, could have happened at any minute and I wouldn't see it coming -I'd rather have it over with and go out knowing how it happened."

"See, that's just it, Sandy. I don't think anyone really fears death itself; they fear not knowing when and how it's going to happen. It's fear of the unknown. You know, nobody's really afraid of the dark because it's dark. They're afraid of what might be in the dark that they can't see.

"There was this one kid killed -not in battle, but at the camp by someone who managed to sneak in even with everyone on watch. _That_ well disguised. They slit his throat -that's what killed him. But whoever got him _ripped his eyes out_. That's not even the best of it. With as much blood there was below his sockets, and with how fast he'd have bled out from the throat, they'd have had to pull his eyes out before they killed him. To have enough blood pressure to get all that blood from above the carotid. They didn't just sneak up behind and get it in one move.

"It's kind of funny when you think of it. They blinded him, and he was probably one of the few who saw his death coming plain and clear out there."

With a glance to Sandy, even with the images of gore burning clear in his mind, Allen barely held back a smirk. He could see behind the subtle look of horror, wheels were turning, as they always turned in the mind of a storyteller like Sandy, and to humor the machine, he allowed himself to descend into the ramble his drugs wanted to pull him into.

"Being on watch around the camp is more dangerous than you think. Maybe almost as dangerous as out in battle. You're not necessarily expecting an attack or hidden trap around camp -it's when you're not looking for it that you're most vulnerable. The fear of the unknown is worse there, if you're really trying to survive it. But other than keeping watch where you're told to when you're told to, you can't do much about who's sneaked in or what's hidden that you don't know about, other than look out for it. Can't get rid of a fear of hidden explosives when they could be there. Can't stop being afraid of surprise attacks when it's what you're watching for. Even if you walk around armed at camp -unlike the one kid -it can still happen."

"You didn't really want to die; you just wanted out, and didn't think it would happen any other way," Sandy concluded. Medical papers and evaluations in the system were too generalized for each one's story; this was just the umpteenth example he'd seen in the last two months.

"Didn't want to, but I had to get rid of something to not go insane, and do something pretty insane if they were going to think to send me home anyway. The unknown itself, this once, it was the one fear I had I knew how to truly rid myself of. With the drugs they gave me for my ankle, I had one method that left me the smallest chance of getting out alive too. Escaping the unknown with an unknown too -until whoever it was who found me either found me dead or alive. Schrödinger's Cat, if you will."

Allen lifted his upturned palms weakly at his sides and gave a curt laugh.

"So I did rid myself of it, and as it turns out, I also _didn't."_

"How do you feel now?"

A few seconds passed with no sound but the steady beep of the heart monitor. Allen finally spoke after a time long enough to constitute uncomfortable silence.

"I don't know."

"You don't? -Well, I take that back," started Sandy, glancing to the papers on the counter listing the drugs Allen was on now, and how high his dose was. "I guess I understand that; it's a lot, and with what they have you on, it's a wonder enough you can think coherently at all." _So worried over an O.D., and they're a minuscule fraction of a unit away from creating one themselves._

With a grin of an unsaid _you don't even know_, Allen shook his head and heaved a sigh.

"I feel a thousand things, but then I don't feel anything," he said mystically. "If you can bring yourself to understand it. Which, I'd suspect you would, of all people. You're clever... I suppose you could say I've forgotten what it feels like to be normal."

Sandy looked back to Allen with a contemplative gaze. Some part of this was going to be in one of his crazy supernatural backgrounds to whatever name the band was going by now. They'd been fixing to abandon the Soft White Underbelly name as far as he knew when he'd left. Whether or not they had officially ditched it was an answer he hadn't gotten yet, as well as if they'd chosen between Stalk-Forrest Group or Oaxaca. 

Either that, or some part of it would end up in lyrics he'd share with Donald and Albert, or with Richard Meltzer. Whichever way, it would get adjusted into some darkly-themed song.

_"My_ version of normal, at least." He suddenly felt compelled to specify the implied detail.

_Might as well say it all. It's just Sandy; he's crazy enough that he can't talk to much himself. If one good story comes out of this trip through hell and back alive..._

"I'd forgotten what it feels like to not... be afraid."

Allen sat up and pulled his scrawny legs in against his chest, to sit with his arms locked around them and his chin resting on his knees.

"I knew I was in a constant state of terror. Maybe you go numb to some of it, overtime. At least by getting used to it being the norm, taking the proper precautions all the time and such, but not feeling so worried anymore. Adaptation, you could call it. But for some -those who can't take it anymore, paranoia is a side effect of it. Forgetting that you're doing something just in case, and not because it's undoubtedly going to happen. And I guess you can do both, somehow. Be paranoid... and not register the fear behind thinking whatever's gonna happen no matter what you do."

Digging his heels into the bed, he'd begun to ever so slightly rock himself back and forth, Sandy noticed. Either an attempt to comfort himself from the memory, he suspected, or more fitting to his otherwise nonchalant demeanor, it was a simple nervous tic he'd never encountered. He'd seen Allen have a tendency to pace backstage before gigs whenever he wasn't absorbed in a book; perhaps this was a seated adaptation of the repetitive back-and-forth. His IV pole and the tight configuration of the hospital room made any standing motion too complicated to attempt.

"For being ready to risk dying to escape, it's strange to realize the extent of that fear, now that it isn't there. Maybe it ought to be more scary to me now that I didn't think it was as much as it was."

"By that you're saying it _doesn't_ concern you?" asked Sandy. "That you were freaked out enough to make that choice to O.D. when you knew you didn't really want to die, and didn't even _realize_ the extent of that?"

"It feels _good."_

The spacey grin began creeping back up -and was beginning to creep Sandy out in its context -but there was a certain tension to it that hadn't been there before, he noticed. A tightness in Allen's narrow jaw, and visible difficulty keeping his overcrowded, misaligned teeth from gritting together. 

It looked halfway between trying to disguise chattering with cold and the quivers that came right before one lost a fight with nausea. Suddenly feeling alarmed, Sandy sneaked a look around the room to locate items that were readily accessible to prevent disaster, should the latter be the case.

Thankfully not, as he found out soon enough. A shiver caught Allen's spine and passed quickly enough that he might have missed the subtle twitch. Once it had ridden upward through him, the tension seemed to release its grip and leave him weak and exhausted again.

"I forgot what it feels like to be _anything_ but afraid and on high alert. That was all I was aware of -whether it overpowered all other senses, or judging by how I feel now, it turns out it was the only sensation there. That and just wanting to get back home, and now that the fear is gone ...I don't feel anything. Just numb, empty... nothing else in its place, but being aware of feeling nothing at all."

With a sigh, Allen unfurled part way and sank back down on the bed, this time lying on his side, facing Sandy.

"But that in itself feels good."

He was still with his knees slightly bent and arms down on them, able to contract into a tuck-and-cover position in one swift move. Though there was no sign of danger, and he showed no intention of it.

Rather, he looked nearly incapable of moving an inch at that moment. Had it not been for his tight, upright huddle moments prior, Sandy would have doubted Allen's ability to lift his head from his pillow, and any less gradual means of moving between positions would have appeared more as a narcoleptic attack. All four limbs seemed to have gone lax at their moderate angles with all voluntary muscles in a natural resting position, minimizing contraction. Nothing pulling to reach out for anything, and nothing moving. No sensation, just a comforting feeling of numbness.

Nothing. Just stillness. Relaxation, in its most foreign state.

Allen had never relaxed easily even before, Sandy had noticed.

He supposed that had to be massive relief, immediately followed by exhaustion hitting like a freight train to even allow him to lie that still, but plenty of thoughts still clashing in the numb, emptiness to allow him to not pass out into sleep that instant.

"You _conscious?"_ Sandy felt compelled to ask despite what he saw, with the dull, unfocused stare Allen gazed across the room with; even his eyes had gone lax. 

"Sort of," Allen replied, words partially muffled with his cheek pushed against the pillow. "Floating. You were right a moment ago; these drugs they've got me on now aren't my type. Not doing me any favors when it takes twice the words to say something and make sense."

Despite the situation, and remaining concerns, Sandy managed a weak smirk, before Allen clambered on his arms to shift up to a semi-sitting position supported by the pillow again.

"Maybe this is too soon, no pressure. But we did go forward in getting a new singer, if you're looking to return. If not, obviously, we'll get you on your feet from this before booting anyone from the band house."

"Good to know. Guess that'll be something interesting to see whenever they send me home from here too."

"Take it that means you're still with us; good to know -and to have you back. Your substitute is petrified of performing onstage, I'll have you know," Sandy replied. "Though that's an understandable fear too. Curious or concerned yet?"

"Maybe I will be. It hasn't fully sunk in, I guess, that I'm really out and free to go back to life as I knew it before. Or whatever of it still is the same. But I got the escape." The tensed, spacey grin returned to Allen's face. "From the fear. Didn't think I'd get out and still get to live, though. Isn't that something?"

He'd pulled his knees in again, but remained supported on the pillows. This time, the shiver just barely hitched in his breathing rather than riding his spine, and he squeezed his arms around his legs tighter and glanced up to the ceiling, convincing himself once again his surroundings were real and not what he just wanted to see. The harsh light shining directly down on him reflected excessively off wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"You know, Sandy, most people say it's impossible to be that lucky. I sure know, growing up, having it drilled in my head that miracles don't exist."

He chuckled again, this time, less despondent and more of giddy drunkenness, tossing an uncoordinated hand out at his side.

"Well, either I have the rights to say 'suck it' right back to everyone, or I'll have hell to pay someday. That's something I could stand to wait and see."

Sandy raised his eyebrows and sighed.

"You were starting to scare me a second, but with the way you're talking and knowing _you_, I'll chalk the behavior up to whatever they've put you on with what's still left of what you did to yourself."

As if they'd been listening outside the entire time to hear if he was okay, implying they could enter, Donald and Albert busted through the door and raced in. Sandy barely had a second's chance to grab the door and keep it from crashing into the wall-mounted counter behind it. 

"You're back!" exclaimed Donald with an air of ecstatic disbelief, stopping in his tracks and taking in the sight of Allen. Who, aside from the remaining medical gear he was hooked to, was not physically scathed or different from prior appearance, unlike what had been easy to expect when he'd been covered with restraints and under high watch before. He'd briefly startled when the door flew open, but was now trying to unfurl again on seeing who it was.

Seeing it as a welcoming sign, Donald then ran over by Allen's side and started to look as though he might take his hand gently, and contemplating how to do so without knocking one of two separate IV catheters loose.

With a deathly-serious expression almost foreign to him, Albert stopped in his tracks at the foot of the bed, rather than going up to Allen's side.

"You scrawny, fang-toothed IDIOT," he screeched, "DON'T YOU _EVER_ DO THAT AGAIN!"

Then, with far less inhibition than Donald showed, seemingly no regard for Allen not often being physically affectionate, and _definitely_ no regard for the big, loud shush Sandy gave in response to his shout, Albert launched himself up on the bed beside Allen and latched onto him with a rib-crushing hug.

"ALBERT!" Donald looked on frantically, torn between pulling Albert off and the fear that attempting to yank him from Allen would be more physical strain on the latter.

_"SHHHHHHH... Both_ of you!"

"Albert, be gentle! He just got out of war shell-shocked but otherwise unscathed." Donald was also undeterred by Sandy's warning -and unusually stern look, more concerned with giving his own. 

"Don't wound him now! You're going to frighten him..."

But rather than stiffening up and squirming away as he usually would in response to unexpected and uninvited embraces, Allen slipped his arms around Albert in a rare show of vulnerability. The subtle shiver from before now seized Allen's shoulder-blades with a hard shudder, and the tension in his jaw spread to the rest of his face in the greatest look of agony Sandy had ever seen on someone in his life -and one he'd never forget.

It was the physical picture of just part of the fearful anguish that had nearly driven Allen to his end as the ghosts left behind of it came to the surface. That was all Sandy saw before Allen leaned in, collapsing as if keeping his spine straight and keeping a hold on Albert was too much at once in his exhausted, inebriated condition. Donald moved forward to put his hand on his shoulder and murmur a few things too soft to hear from the corner of the room, further blocking any sight.

Even with the haunting memory of the grip the fear had on him echoing in loud clashes through the numb chasm it had left behind, it didn't have a grip on Allen now.

Instead, he had the same death grip on Albert like he was the very life the fear had almost pulled out of him, and as if he was trying to pull him to safety from falling over the edge into the same trap.

He'd been shipped out before finding out whether or not his other bandmates had been drafted or not. For all Allen knew, getting back alive didn't ensure he'd see his bandmates again. With all he'd been able to see each day, some of the disfigured remains could have been any of them, and he'd have never known it.

With wide eyes, Donald walked over to Sandy and whispered.

"Did you _tell_ him? That the rest of us are clear?"

"Not yet," Sandy replied. "Thought I'd let you two tell him. Maybe it wasn't the wisest idea when he's under enough stress already -ah, forget that. The surprise won't hurt him too much when it's good news."

"Think he's okay?" Donald looked at Allen, who had let go of Albert to lie back down, then looked back to Sandy with concern.

"Allen is tired, and probably very emotional from whatever in hell's in his system right now. If it wasn't enough that he O.D.'d on opiates, they've got him on a shit ton of tranquilizers and in withdrawals from his drug of choice. Swapping depressants in place of stimulants -I'd be more concerned if he _wasn't_ loopy." 

Donald nodded hesitant understanding.

"We probably shouldn't stay too long, now that we know he's mostly okay, other than being freaked out -that was expected. He needs to sleep it off so he can get cleared to leave if we're taking him home tomorrow."

"No, we're not staying long. He's not himself, but we'll get him right. Though, maybe I should be more concerned that Albert's seeing fit not to give him a hard time, bar his greeting," Sandy quipped, surprised indeed. He'd suspected Albert would have been the worst with teasing and attempting to embarrass Allen, had the latter been any more delirious.

Instead, Albert was rather being the opposite. Currently, that was by body-blocking Donald and Sandy's sightline of him and using the remote to turn up the volume on the TV in the background. Though surprisingly controlled for the situation, Allen was less than his typical stoic self, and now huddled on his side once more behind Albert to discreetly steady his breathing, dry the tears that had betrayed him, and regain composure.

"Considering I lived, maybe we should be saying I O.D.'d on life itself instead," he finally spoke through a hoarse voice, once he was sure that speaking wouldn't lead to thoroughly embarrassing himself. "I know one of you guys are gonna do something with that at some point. One of these days. So I might as well say it."

"Probably will, but I think we'll wait until you're recovered and we get a stable lineup again before we consider that," said Donald with a sense of finality. _Too real and soon to joke about that when we have other ideas to use for now._

Allen seemed to wince at the remark from where he lay, once again just as deadweight as at the end of his one-on-one recount with Sandy. This time, he was comforted by the familiar humor of his bandmates rather than numbing emptiness.

"I didn't think I would see any of you again; I really didn't," he murmured. How much he truly cared beneath his reserved, nonchalant demeanor went unspoken as usual, but in plain sight for once.

"You're going home, and we're not going anywhere -except to play gigs, so enough of that thought." Donald took it upon himself to break the news before that thought could haunt Allen any further.

"Got cleared, did you?" If it was possible to perk up without moving a single muscle, Allen had done it.

"Yeah, _seems_ you got all our bad luck in one fell swoop -hopefully that's it for this band," said Albert, half-teasingly and half cautious of unexpected news.

"Yeah, nice to hear it be put that way. Guess it's not all bad if that _is_ it. So how did you guys all get free?"

"They took one look at me and said they won't send me. I guess if there's a silver lining to me being this short, that's it." Donald smiled innocently, looking rather proud of finally finding an advantage to being a mere five feet and two inches tall.

"I made up some stories, as you might expect of me," Sandy said cooly. "I'm a psychopath. Too unstable. _Might just_ turn on my own side -kill my mates in their sleep. A forged doctor's note and some good acting, and I was home free. Meltzer became an incoherent LSD-using pyromaniac who burns his books for fun, and might set a camp or bunk house on fire for fun too."

"That's good even for you," Allen mused, giving further reassurance that his normal self was still mostly intact within him.

"It _worked."_ Playing the persona he'd given himself for the board just for kicks, Sandy shrugged with a bitter pout, as if almost disappointed in losing the opportunity of going on a murder spree.

"And Albert?"

Sandy failed to keep a straight face and cracked up then.

"Yeah, he's home free," he chuckled, as Albert cracked up too and sprung his evil grin.

"Everyone in the house knew how I did it," he said. "I made sure of it."

"He pulled an all-nighter and took LSD the whole time," said Donald. "Listening to _Their Satanic Majesties_ too, in hopes of getting into some character. He was already so strung out at midnight-"

"-Yeah, I had Andy and Donald spend the night up with him, 'cause if you saw him running around tripping out on everything, you'd think he was ready to burn the house down and laugh at it."

"Sandy, Albert might burn the house down and laugh at it on any _normal_ day," laughed Donald, managing to get Albert to crack up with him, before wagging his finger at the drummer. "Don't give him ideas this soon."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised he got cleared." Allen finally cracked up too, with less of a spaced-out smirk, and one more of his natural wit. "Not at all. I bet he'd have been cleared on his own."

"I'm sure I could have," Albert suggested, "but the look of terror on the guy's face through that interview was entirely worth it! And I think it was the same one Allen saw, so..."

He trailed off with his signature, evil grin.

"Got a hard time in return," Allen mused. With the banter and Albert's playful look, he could have been home already, excluding the overly-sterile surroundings. "Guess that's another thing I didn't expect." 

"And one none of us can argue with," said Sandy, standing back and putting his hands on his hips with a sense of accomplishment.

It was one small war within their own, horror-dominated, minor world they'd finally won.


End file.
